


No Church in the Wild

by latinaeinstein (oneforyourfire)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Cuckolding, Daddy Kink, Lack of Communication, M/M, Polyamory, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 07:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16908612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/latinaeinstein
Summary: Zitao is allowed his playmates, his indulgences





	No Church in the Wild

**Author's Note:**

> 2014 fic
> 
> this is polyamory done wrong and it's still my most uncomfortable fic and the one that got me the most negative feedback. another heads up, i guess

It's not planned. Not really.

And it's not, strictly speaking, completely rational, really in line with what he thought he wanted.

But in the aftermath. In the crux of it, Joonmyun realizes, it almost makes sense.

In that moment. And afterwards. And again and again and again.

Because Zitao is beautiful, beautifully _his_ , but beautifully needy, beautifully easy to read. And Joonmyun still powerless to deny, eager to provide.

 

It's not planned.

But it almost falls into place like maybe it was that Saturday night. Not in an inevitable it-was-meant-to-be sort of way. More in a slow culmination of confusing twists and breathless why not's that have Joonmyun leaning forward whispering a decidedly un Kim Joonmyun thing as his baby's eyelids flutter shut. His cheeks are stained pink, his lips red and slick, his eyes soft and extra vulnerable. So fucking beautiful, so fucking radiant, so fucking _his_ , head heavy against Joonmyun's shoulder, breath hot against Joonmyun's neck.

And Joonmyun thinks of maybe blaming the dim lights, the low bassline rattling his bones, the alcohol sloshing in his veins, the black black of Zitao's dark dark eyelashes, the solid press of his thighs against his, the distinct undeniable knowledge that Zitao belongs to him _most_. Blaming them for making something like guilt and lust and possessiveness pool and twist in disconcerting coils. Blaming them for conjuring images of gilded cages and mounted butterflies and the phantom, stilted desire Joonmyun imagines glimmering in Zitao's large liquid eyes. Like maybe he's scared to want. Like maybe Joonmyun is cruel to deny. Anything, _anything_ for his baby boy.

"I don't mind sharing you, baby," he decides lowly—suddenly, _recklessly_ —that night, locking eyes with the bold dark-eyed plush-lipped man across the bar. Joonmyun's been intercepting his too-long, too-heavy glances, tugging Zitao's forward to press kisses along his jawline, speak against his throat, tug on dark strands, grind against his thigh in smooth achingly slow circles. In pride. In greed. In possession. But the lights and alcohol and Zitao's eyes. And Zitao's still his baby, still his love.

"If that's what you want, baby boy," he continues, and Zitao is soft and affected as Joonmyun rubs his thumb insistently along Zitao's wrist,  noses teasingly at a sharp cheekbone. Zitao gasps softly, shudders visibly. "If they want you, and you want them back. As long as you're mine immediately afterwards. As long as you ask permission. As long as you come back to _Daddy_. As long as you belong to _me._ Only ever to me."

Zitao exhales shakily, stumbles quietly over a breathless, imploring "Daddy."

"If that's what you want, baby. You have to tell me if that's what you want."

Zitao nuzzles into the hand cupping his jawline, licks briefly along Joonmyun's wrist, but doesn't make to answer. It isn't an explicit enough response, and Joonmyun presses the issue, presses his fingers to tilt Zitao's head upwards to meet his eyes. Zitao flushes.

" _Zitao_ ," he insists. His voice sounds strange—strained and almost seductive—to his own ears, and Zitao tenses, curls his fingers around Joonmyun's wrist to reinforce the weight of his hand against his cheek. "Zitao, _baby_ , tell me. With him?"

Zitao nods stuttering, and the dim lights cast soft shadows across the sharp planes of his beautiful face.

And it's not planned, not really discussed first, but Joonmyun leaves first that night. And Zitao comes back an hour later, drags his tall golden-skinned companion into a spare bedroom where he moans brokenly, makes box springs squeak in protest.

 

And it doesn't make sense, but it does, Joonmyun thinks, absently cataloging every whimper. Reeling. Jealousy, possessiveness undercut with a certain proud, forbidden thrill for the other man's every answering groan.

He doesn't stay the night.

 

And in the soft pink glow of early morning, Zitao climbs into Joonmyun's lap, kisses fleeting, touches lingering. All warm skin and whispered thanks you's, Zitao braces himself on Joonmyun's shoulders, slides down to the hilt with one breathless whimpered drop. Every rise and fall is punctuated with quiet moans, languid tugs of Joonmyun's hand on Zitao's cock.

And it doesn't really matter, Joonmyun thinks, pressing hard on the fading purple at Zitao's hip as he thrusts upwards, rolls purposefully, takes Zitao with a lazy, practiced familiarity that has the younger gasping, trembling.

"Don't let them mark you next time, baby," he huffs anyway, running one hand up Zitao's side to cup his jaw, meet his distracted black eyes. "You belong to _me_. You're _mine_."

Zitao nods stutteringly, moans his assent. Head lolling forward, biting his lips, Zitao arches his spine, whimpers as he starts to bounce. His every sink downward sending warm, languid tendrils of pleasure skittering across Joonmyun's skin, winding tighter and tighter.

Zitao shudders beautifully when he comes, collapsing forward to kiss Joonmyun almost drunkenly. Joonmyun grips hard, grinds even harder into Zitao's limp, sated body to find his own release.

It doesn't really matter.

Not when Zitao is warm and supple and _his_ , dreamy and loving and soft in the aftermath. Not when he's bathed in morning light, nuzzling sleepily against his neck.

It doesn't really matter.

Joonmyun orders pancakes, and Zitao gets crumbs on the sheets, maple syrup on his collarbone. He apologizes without really meaning it as he tangles his legs with Joonmyun's under the loose down comforter, laughing airily as their knees knock together. At Zitao's insistence, they watch Mandarin-language cartoons. Something with dancing goats and scheming wolves on Channel 987 of their Satellite TV. Zitao laughs a lot, and only translates every other sentence, his breath hot and persistent against Joonmyun's bare shoulder.

He's there, at Joonmyun's side, where he belongs.

And it doesn't really matter.

 

Zitao is allowed his playmates, his indulgences.

But there are demarcations, schedules, boundaries. A certain ritual to every encounter. Saturday nights, Zitao braves expensive bars, exclusive clubs. All on his own, but Joonmyun makes a point of kissing him hard, breathless before he leaves. And Zitao melts into it, chasing his mouth and slumping forward to suck on his bottom lip. For good luck.

The men that he brings home are taller, leaner, younger, maybe even more handsome. Ushered quickly, eagerly into the guest bedroom. But they leave before the phantom pangs of insecurity have a chance to press hard against Joonmyun's chest.

And Zitao curls into his side almost immediately afterward, petting slowly and reverently over pale, smooth skin. Like he appreciates the contrasts. Like his Daddy is his everything. And in the afterglow of unrushed, lazy, emotional, emotional sex, Zitao trembles in his arms. Their breath in sync, Zitao whispers that he loves him between sleepy exhales.

And Zitao makes a habit of leaving crumbs on the comforter, sauce on Joonmyun's collarbone, lazy kisses and lilting Mandarin against his skin.

Joonmyun reflects on the fact that he's always been too nice, too indulgent, as Zitao nips playfully at his earlobe, and Joonmyun inhales deeply past the scent of somebody else's cologne.

 

"Are you trying to find a new Daddy?" Joonmyun jokes absently, a couple of weeks in, twisting his head at an awkward angle to watch as Zitao gets ready. He's breaking in a new pair of jeans. Debuting a new cologne. Lithe and sensual even as he smacks his lips loudly, squints at his face in the vanity mirror.

Zitao's mouth drops open. His eyebrows crease. And he spins around to gape at him. He licks his lips twice before answering. "No, Daddy," he stammers, voice pitched high. "I—I don't—"

"Its okay," Joonmyun laughs, beckoning him over with an outstretched arm. Zitao presses his face into Joonmyun's forearm, melts against him with a soft sound.

"I don't want another Daddy. You're special."

Joonmyun hums against the crown of Zitao's head, exhales in a quiet chuckle.

Zitao twists to pout up at him. He lifts one hand to cup Joonmyun's jawline, fingers hesitant and tender.

"I only ever want to belong to you," he says seriously. And Joonmyun swallows slowly at the sudden shift in mood, meeting Zitao's heavy stare. Joonmyun kisses the edge of his mouth, smooths the crease in between his eyebrows with his thumb. It's not about ownership or replacements, Joonmyun knows, it's about attention. It's about temporary versus lasting. It's about the weight of Zitao's head on his forearm, making his limb numb.

So Joonmyun crinkles his eyes in understanding, in amusement. And he reaches out with his other arm to swat Zitao's ass. The younger yelps, bites down on his skin in retaliation. He falls off the bed while rolling away and huffs about his appearance.

"You're beautiful," Joonmyun informs him, unnecessarily loud. Zitao pauses to preen at him before fussing over his hair, the crease of black along his eyelids.

Joonmyun presses him tight against the front door before he leaves, kisses him until Zitao is dizzy and wobbly-legged, whimpering into his mouth. And it's a strange kind of arrangement, but Zitao's small, lazy smile is just for him.

 

It's a regular occurrence, performed with practiced precision, facilitated by Zitao's ease of conquest.

But more often than not Saturdays end with a whiny Zitao, nude and clingy, demanding his attention. And Joonmyun doesn't—couldn't possibly—want for anything else, anything more.

 

Three months into their arrangement Zitao brings him home.

He's a screamer. A loud, gasping, kind of moaner. He sounds young and desperate as he begs begs begs for Zitao to fuck him harder, faster.

Joonmyun groans, throws a pillow over his head, but makes space for him before passing out.

 

When he wakes up, Zitao isn't there.

And when he wanders to the kitchen, following hushed voices, the other man _is_.

Long, bare legs dangling off the counter as he teases Zitao about his bed hair, watches him pour cereal. Zitao swats his reaching hand away, but laughs anyway. And the other laughs, too, tugging him forward and nuzzling against his shoulder, inhaling deeply.

Zitao snorts and tries to squirm away, but he tightens his fingers into Zitao's shoulder, sniffing obnoxiously loud.

"That tickles," Zitao whines, and the other—the intruder—hums something then that makes the Zitao flush, turn to nose at his jawline, smile against his throat.

Zitao is too affectionate, gets attached much too easily.

Joonmyun clears his throat loudly. Zitao stiffens, slithers out of his grasp.

His eyes flicker towards Joonmyun and then back to Zitao. He shifts lazily, cocks an eyebrow, and Joonmyun can see that he's wearing one of Zitao's shirts. He's pretty, Joonmyun notes dimly. Young and thin and mildly bored-looking, an interloper with sharp eyes and a sharper jawline, gazing up at him in muted interest.

"This is Sehun," Zitao supplies softly.

"Sehun." Joonmyun hopes his tone, his posture, communicates "You're not fucking welcome." He leans heavily against the alcove.

Sehun slumps back, elbows knocking against the granite counter. There's a smirk in his voice, if not on his face. "Yes _Sehun_. And this Tao. And you're—?"

"His boyfriend." The title tastes odd on his tongue, almost shallow.

Sehun's subtle in his reaction, the slight quirk of an eyebrow the only indication of surprise. "Boyfriend," Sehun echoes, turning to look at Zitao. "I didn't—" He sucks his lower lip into his mouth.

"You should go."

Sehun does, quickly, almost apologetically.

And Joonmyun makes Zitao pancakes, reminds him in between splashes of batter on the pan that they're _not_ supposed to be there when he wakes up. Because that's _our_ time, he insists, Zitao nodding slowly and sleepily against his forehead.

Zitao doesn't go out for another two weeks, and Joonmyun forgives him his transgression, thinks that's the end of that particular problem.

He's _wrong_.

 

Zitao brings him home again.

Sehun is even louder this time. As if for greater show. His moans cracking in the still night air. "Say my name," he demands, and Zitao does, voice breaking. And it's not _Daddy;_ it's not a broken rule. But it's a repeat, a familiarity, and  Joonmyun swallows thickly past the lump in his throat.

He leaves, but Joonmyun imagines them kissing, those long bare legs and bored brown eyes _captivating_ or _claiming_ , and finds himself clinging to Zitao.

But Joonmyun is too kind, too understanding, too indulgent, and Zitao murmurs absently about how warm he is. And Joonmyun knows that he still belongs to him. Electively. Completely.

That knowledge stops Joonmyun from refusing when Zitao asks, three weeks later, for permission to just see Sehun on his free nights—dropping formalities, the entire ruse of finding other temporaries—but it doesn't stop Joonmyun from resenting.

Because Sehun, once the shyness and nervous has dissipated and the parameters explained, is entirely too familiar, entirely too comfortable. Sehun takes liberties with Zitao's space, with his feelings. He drops his language, tone entirely too intimate, touches even more so. He _likes_ Joonmyun's baby, wants him, too, is successful enough to claim something close to possession. And Joonmyun has always been too nice, and Zitao too transparent in his needs, his wants.

Saturday nights are theirs, via negotiation, and it's not always sex. Sometimes it's video games, boardgames, movies, or Mandarin-language cartoons. Sehun laying claiming to those special moments is almost worse, a bigger affront. Because sex he understands, sex makes sense. But companionship, attention, are different. Those are things that Joonmyun can provide, things that are supposed to be boyfriend-exclusive. And Zitao's tinkling laughter, the crinkle of his eyes, the distinct curl of his pout, the ease of his warm caresses, his sleep rumpled hair, his pillow creased cheeks are _his,_ his special Zitao, _his baby_.

Sehun is all sleepy eyes and lazy smirks, mocking eyebrows, gangly limbs, undeniable beauty. He's too rough around the edges. Too good at making Zitao want.

And Sehun's hair is sloppy in an affected, calculated sort of way. And there's a pretense in his impassive brown eyes, a bite behind every remark spoken in Joonmyun's direction, a guardedness that leaves Joonmyun feeling unhinged, unable to read him but desperate to break him apart. He doesn't want to keep him, doesn't him want him anywhere near his Zitao.

And it definitely fucking matters, but then Zitao _smiles_ as he nuzzles into Sehun's shoulder, and Joonmyun _can't_.

 

Joonmyun doesn't _have_ to supervise, but he finds himself doing it nonetheless. Dress slacks crinkling around his knees as he curls them to his chest, watching as Zitao leans heavily on Sehun's side, Sehun petting over his skin. He fiddles absently with his phone, pretends to check his work email.

They're watching some American horror film, and Joonmyun's eyes keep flickering between the carnage on screen and the intimacy in his periphery. He can barely stomach either.

A zombie stumbles towards the protagonist. Joonmyun muffles his gasp into his fist, and Zitao whimpers as he presses his face into Sehun's chest, murmuring against the gray cotton. Joonmyun almost feels like crying but bites away the urge, twisting his fist into the dark shag carpet.

And he feels the direct provocation as Sehun kisses the corner of Zitao's mouth before he leaves. Sehun cups Zitao's jawline as he does, presses their noses together. Joonmyun rolls up his shirtsleeves as he watches, frowning.

Zitao apologizes by dropping to his knees, murmuring softly against his navel, petting along his thighs.

"Can I, Daddy?" he asks, nosing at the waistband of his slacks. "Can I please?"

Joonmyun groans, cradling his head, moaning at the distinct pressure of Zitao's tongue against his cock.

And maybe it _does_ matter, but Joonmyun's too drunk on the flutter of Zitao's lips, the excruciating slickness of his perfect mouth, to really care at the moment.

 

(But it _does_ , and he presses the issue, because he can't let it go. Because it's starting to eat away)

"Do you want a new boyfriend?" Joonmyun asks him, pressing the question to the nape of Zitao's neck, lightly,  like it doesn't matter even though it does.

Zitao spins smoothly in his arms, furrows his eyebrows cutely. He doesn't look skittish or apologetic like before, just tired, resigned. Joonmyun rubs at the hollow under his eyes."I have a boyfriend."

"Sehun?" His voice cracks slightly on the last syllable, and he bites hard on his lip in shame after asking.

Zitao shakes his head emphatically, black bangs falling in his eyes. Joonmyun brushes them away."Sehun's a friend. _You_ , Daddy."

"You don't go out anymore. Don't sleep around." Joonmyun walks his fingers down Zitao's spine, curls them around to rub at his bare hipbone. "It's just me now. Just me and Sehun."

Zitao scrunches his nose. "That means I'm not yours?"

But but but— "Did—did Sehun tell you to stop?"

"You said as long as I wanted. I stopped wanting."

"Why?"

"Sehun—Sehun's good, and I have you, Daddy. And that's it."

Joonmyun presses his nose to Zitao's collarbone, licks softly at the warm skin.

"I belong to you," he repeats, voice shaky, arms winding around Joonmyun's shoulder, legs tangling with his.

 

Sehun continues to burrow, continues to demand. And Zitao to reciprocate. And Joonmyun to relent. It's a strange dance, of the youngest—the least important, the least invested, the most disposable—leading the way, while Joonmyun scrambles to right all the wrongs.

And Joonmyun rewrites the rules once more. As long as Zitao continues to be there when he gets home, ever eager for Joonmyun's kiss, his touch. Ever _present,_ if not ever his.

It's okay that Zitao texts him even on the days that aren't his. Phone beeping annoyingly with notifications, Zitao's eyes disappearing into crescents, as Joonmyun watches, reading his newspaper without really absorbing any of the information.

It's okay that they share couple accessories, matching woven bracelets, and ugly teddy bear charms on their phones.

It's okay that they're toeing decidedly boyfriend boundaries with their dates to the park and zoo and movies. Out together. Just the two of them. Where they'll be read as something more official.

It's okay that Zitao starts to _change_. Becoming just a little brattier, a little poutier, a little more particular. (Because he's still all wide smiles and natural touches and soft voice, and _anything_ for his baby boy).

(It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter)

 

But Sehun, predictably, crosses those boundaries, too.

 

It's Wednesday night, and Joonmyun is dead fucking tired. He toes off his shoes, smiles ruefully as he thinks about his pretty baby's smile, the promise of his warm fingers, his perfect mouth, his smooth body, melting all his stress away.

He calls out for him as he works his tie off, tugging harder than necessary because it's been _suffocating_ him all day, but gets no response.

Joonmyun notes, then, that all the lights are off, and it fucking matters.

His baby isn't there, and he forces down the momentary panic. Logic overriding crushing fear.

He texts to ask where he is, and Zitao sends back a picture of the ocean with a bunch of emoticons, a comment about a sea gull that stole his sandwich.

Joonmyun swallows thickly, asks if he's with Sehun.

Zitao sends a picture of the two of them, Sehun's face stretched into an attractive, but begrudging grin as Zitao makes a peace sign. They're both wearing tank tops—Sehun's red to Zitao's blue—and the light gleams off Sehun's sunglasses, glimmers off of Zitao's bright eyes.

His heart lurches.

They've never gone to the beach together; Joonmyun's skin is too sensitive. But Sehun isn't _allowed_. Can't take him to place they've never been. He can't be any firsts.

That wasn't the deal, he wants to say. That's wasn't the fucking agreement. You're supposed to fucking tell me. You're supposed to listen, Zitao. I needed you right now, and this isn't fucking allowed.

But he doesn't.

He asks when he's coming home. Likes the Instagram selcas he uploads. Allows the anger to fester and grow. Seething. Doubting. Resenting. Resenting. Resenting.

When they step through the door, Sehun is sucking loudly on a milkshake, sunglasses perched on top of his obnoxious, traitorous hair. And Zitao has sand on his sneakers, a beach bag slung over his shoulder.

"You didn't say you were going out together," he says. "I came home to any empty house."

Sehun offers an "oh" of feigned surprised, and Joonmyun glowers, eyes cold, shoulders tense.

"We were supposed to be back earlier, but Zitao got some henna on his back and then he wanted to get ice cream, and we lost track of time."

"You've gone out before, then? Without my permission?"

Sehun raises an eyebrow, brushes back his obnoxiously golden bangs. "We need to get your permission for every day trip, _Daddy_?"

Zitao makes this little sound of protest, reaches out to squeeze Sehun's hand in warning or in comfort. And something gives, something snaps.

"Get the fuck out," Joonmyun says evenly. Sehun cocks an eyebrow, glances in Zitao's direction. Zitao drops his beach bag, shoves his hands into his loose board shorts. "No, don't fucking look at him. Get the fuck out of my house."

"We just went out for a couple of hours," Sehun counters, meeting his eyes, matching his tone.

"Get the fuck out of my house."

"So it's okay for me to fuck him, but taking him out—"

"Get the fuck out."

"He wanted to—"

"He's not yours to keep. _Leave_ , Sehun."

"Do we really need to fucking schedule—"

"Get out."

But Sehun stands his ground, even as Zitao lets out this soft sound and strides over to Joonmyun, lips soft, voice softer, trying to explain.

Joonmyun twists his fingers into the hair at the nape of Zitao's neck, and he drops to his knees immediately, obediently. "He doesn't belong to you," he spits out, locking eyes with Sehun as Zitao presses his nose to his zipper.

Sehun slams the door, and Zitao grips his hip hard to draw him back. His skin is extra golden, his cheeks extra pink, and there's the phantom smear of sunscreen across his cheek. It pisses him off.

Joonmyun pulls him up by the shoulders, knocks frames off their nails as he presses him against the wall, presses his mouth against his. Zitao groans as he licks his way inside his mouth.  He tastes like cotton candy, smells tangy and salty, and _that_ pisses him off, too.

Sehun has been changing him slowly, leaving his mark, carving his space, and it pisses him off. And it fucking matters. And it's not fucking fair.

He tangles his fingers in Zitao's hair, tugs harshly back. Zitao whimpers.

He's been needing this, but Sehun is every where he touches, everywhere he kisses, and he fucking can't. Not right now.

"It's my fucking day, Zitao." He nips at Zitao's bottom lip. "My fucking day. My day."

Zitao digs his thumbs into Joonmyun's tense shoulder blades, groans as Joonmyun presses a thigh, hard and unforgiving between Zitao's legs. He whines, meets him with imploring, already hazy eyes.

"Now, you're gonna go to the room. Strip naked, face down," Joonmyun orders, squeezing Zitao's chin between his fingers. Zitao gulps as he nods. "And I'm gonna fuck you so hard, so good that you _never_ forget that it's my day, that you're mine."

"Yes, yes."

 

"Did you fuck him? Before you left? Even though it wasn't his day?" He asks hotly, skimming his hands down the cleft of Zitao's ass. Joonmyun's shirtsleeve scrapes against the sensitive, trembling flesh there. Zitao presses his face further into the pillow, but nods, sobs. "Are you still stretched from him?" He ghosts his thumb once for good measure, and Zitao's entire body arches toward the caress.

"Sehun doesn't—I'm the one that—" Zitao chokes out.

Joonmyun flips him easily. "Do it to yourself, then."

Zitao is too desperate to make a show of it. Face pinching in pleasure, in need, he slicks his fingers, stretches himself, whimpering for his Daddy to sooth him, to hold his hand or kiss his lips or ease him through the process. But Joonmyun just watches, peeling off his clothes to fist himself. Zitao's eyes clench shut as he works his fingers inside, his thighs trembling, his mouth opening to make way for breathy whines and broken pleas.

"Please, Daddy. _Please_."

"On your knees."

Zitao whimpers as he complies.

Joonmyun hovers over him, lips teasing over Zitao's skin. "I'm gonna fuck you now, Zitao. Because you're _mine_."

And it's never been this fast, this rough, but Joonmyun has something to prove. And there's an answering moan for every hard thrust forward, a breathless plea for harder, faster, _more_. Even as Joonmyun splits him open, breaks him in half, Zitao cries out from pleasure.

Zitao balls his fists into their shared sheets, head crashing forward, and Joonmyun pulls him back, snaps forward, setting a maddening, unforgiving pace. Joonmyun focuses hazily on the play of light across Zitao's glistening spine as he curves upwards toward every fuck forward, lolls his head down to whimper messily.

He twists his head to the side, lips trembling, hair dampening, muscles flexing, and Joonmyun goes that much harder, grazing his teeth along Zitao's spine. He molds bruises onto Zitao's hips.

Zitao collapses forward, and Joonmyun groans past the devastating, consuming full body burn, the violent jolts of pleasure as he slams into Zitao's tight, slick heat.

"Please, Daddy. I'm yours. Please. Just please."

"You belong to _me_ ," he pants. Zitao grinds back, tries to twist an arm to pull Joonmyun closer, but he doesn't let up, just fucks him harder so he slumps forward anew. "Call my name, Zitao. Call my name."

He presses hard on the ornate sun stamped on Zitao's lower back, and Zitao gasps for him.

"Baby," Zitao pleads weakly, voice wrecked, liquid, desperate. "I'm your baby, Daddy. Call me baby. Please, Daddy."

"Touch yourself," Joonmyun bites out.

Zitao whines. He tries to match the sloppy strokes along his cock to the bruising thrust of Joonmyun's hips, trembling from the strain.

"Baby, Daddy. Call me baby. Please, Daddy."

Joonmyun licks sloppily along the column of his spine, tilting him further, and Zitao screams at the change in angle. A broken, helpless "Daddy" cracking from his bruised lips.

"Please, Daddy. Please, please, please. Call me baby. I belong to you. I'm your baby. Call me baby," Zitao begs.

Joonmyun pants it out, the name vibrating against his sweaty skin, and Zitao tenses, sobbing through his orgasm. Blabbering about how he's his. Only his. Only Daddy's baby boy.

And from then on it dissolves into a crescendo of possessive presses, demanding thrusts, hard hard commands. The pleasure builds and builds and builds, and Zitao is there, his his his through every distinct, dizzying step. Until orgasm is stealing over him, slackening all of his muscles as he spasms violently through it, giving into the pure exquisite pleasure as he sags against his baby.

 

Sehun and Zitao text for two, three weeks, before Sehun feels comfortable coming again. He avoids speaking to Joonmyun directly, opts for watching him carefully instead, lip caught between his teeth, dark eyes dissecting him slowly.

Joonmyun feels naked, squirms away from the scrutiny.

They continue to have annoyingly loud sex, and Joonmyun starts to make a game of marking Zitao up. Leaving bruises on his collarbone, his hips, his neck.

Sehun screams about it once. Muses extra loud to Zitao about how he's surprised somebody as boring and square as Joonmyun can even get it up, can even be any good in bed.

Zitao argues something back, much quieter, tone harsher.

 

But Zitao wants, and Joonmyun gives, and it's as close to a cease-fire as they can get.

 

It's only another two weeks before Sehun fucks that up, too.

 

From the guest room, he screams that Zitao needs him. But when Joonmyun rushes over, he sees that they're sprawled on the mattress, Sehun leaning against the headboard, Zitao curled at his side.

"Do you want to watch?" he purrs filthily, raising his knee in invitation.

Joonmyun blink recovers as Sehun leans back, smirks up in challenge. Joonmyun's cock twitches just the slightest at the insolence.

Sehun's pants are already off, his shirt rumpled around his armpits, his lips swollen and slick, and Joonmyun's stomach coils with jealousy, with indignation, with anger.

"Watch?" His tone is hard, eyes harder.

"Watch us fuck, _Daddy_ ," Sehun proposes in a mocking sing-song.

At his side, Zitao flushes, wrings his hands. He doesn't meet Joonmyun's eyes, all tense shoulders and awkward squirms. "Is that what you want, Zitao?"

He doesn't answer. Sehun chuckles, cocks an eyebrow. Joonmyun spares him a glare before softening his tone, beckoning Zitao with a pat to his lap. Joonmyun sits on the edge of the mattress, and Zitao falls heavy and solid on his lap, arms looped around his shoulders but eyes trained on Sehun.

"Look at me, baby boy." And there are tears of shame or maybe frustration clinging to his eyelashes. Joonmyun thumbs away. "Look at Daddy. Tell Daddy what _you_ want."

Zitao folds his body to press his forehead to Joonmyun's chest, shakes his head shyly.

"Is that what you want, baby? Want Daddy to watch you with somebody else?"

Zitao's eyes flicker upwards. "Sehun...he—he says I'm good. And I thought maybe—maybe you'd like to watch." He noses along Joonmyun's chin. "Are you mad?" he breathes.

But the residual anger unfurls, dissipates slowly as he meets Zitao's large, hesitant eyes.

"You're good, baby?" he murmurs against his nose. "Sehun thinks you're good?"

"He's an amazing fuck, "Sehun cuts in. "And nobody has to pay me to say it either... _Daddy_...Nobody has to pay to keep me around."

Joonmyun inhales sharply. There's a brief, hot flash of annoyance, and he comes a little unhinged. He grips Zitao's chin, kisses him then. A kiss for show. For dominance. For possession.

It's sloppier, harder, deeper than usual. His tongue delving to tangle and claim, as he forces Zitao's head back, presses his fingers into his jaw to feel it tremble. His teeth tug on Zitao's bottom lip, and Zitao moans loudly.

He can feel the mattress dip as Sehun clambers to watch. When Joonmyun eyelids flutter open, it's to meet Sehun's heavy stare. Joonmyun leans forward to order Zitao to the middle of the mattress as he coaxes Sehun over with a crooked finger. Sehun slumps forward, twists his expression into one of defiance, even while he breathes hard and fast through his mouth.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Joonmyun set his jaw, drags him forward by the neck, thumb insistent against his adam's apple. Sehun's eyes darken. His breathing becomes even more shallow.

"And you—you're so bad," Joonmyun murmurs. Sehun's eyelids flutter."So, so bad. Why are you so bad?"

Sehun lets out this strangled whimper, and Zitao shifts in Joonmyun's periphery, eyes heavy on Joonmyun's face as he watches.

"Things would be so much better if you were good, Sehunnie." Joonmyun noses along his jawline, lips teasing across warm, soft skin. Sehun tries to kiss him, but Joonmyun tilts away. Sehun makes this soft noise of protest deep in his throat. He tries to pull away, but Joonmyun holds him in place.

He sucks a mark on his neck, right beneath a mole, and Sehun's throat works, vibrates against his tongue.

"You're not my baby to discipline," he tells him, lips ghosting over his. Sehun's hands grip his waist, squeezing hard as he exhales shakily. "But if you were, if you were I'd get insolence out of you. I'd have you pliant and _begging_ for it."

Sehun whimpers.

"You'd be so _good_. So good for me. You'd know better than to act out to get my attention. And maybe I'd even fuck you. I'd fuck you so hard and so good, you'd be _begging_ for it. All the fucking time. Begging for my cock. "

He emphasizes the hypothetical with a deliberate lick, slow and promising along his jawline. Sehun moans.

"But as it is," he tangles his fingers into Sehun's hair, forces his head downward to meet his eyes, "I'm not interested in keeping you. And if it weren't for my baby boy," Joonmyun motions with his chin. Sehun licks his lips. "This would have ended long ago. So I'm gonna need you to make it up to me."

Sehun swallows thickly, eyes flickering toward the strain of Joonmyun half hard erection. His hand glides down his side, and Joonmyun grabs his wrist. "No," he chides softly, lips brushing against the corner of Sehun's mouth. "Take care of my baby."

Sehun is all liquid, serpentine grace as he crawls between Zitao's legs to peel off his boxers, suck him off. Joonmyun sidles beside Zitao to watch.

It's teasing, at first. Languid strokes of his fist, passing brushes of his achingly pink lips along Zitao's thighs, hums and flutters of his tongue lapping along the slit at the head. Zitao's thighs tensing, cock jumping to close the distance, body squirming both toward and away from every caress.

Until Joonmyun presses down on Sehun's clothed shoulder, and Sehun's sleepy eyes crinkle into crescents as he sinks his lips all the way down and then back. There's a lazy smirk in his eyes and a certain eagerness and finesse in his slick bobs, smooth caresses. Zitao lets out small whimpers, arches his spine as Sehun swallows around the length, slurping obscenely.

Joonmyun alternates between petting his baby's hair back and palming himself through his pants in passing caresses as he watches, until Zitao is cradling Sehun's head, pressing hard on his jawline, whimpering that it's enough.

Zitao squeezes Joonmyun's hand briefly, hesitates. Joonmyun noses at his cheek, whispers that he wants to watch his baby.

One lingering, close-mouthed kiss, and Zitao is disengaging to urge Sehun onto his back. There's mirth in Sehun's eyes as he tugs his boxers down his long, pale legs. Zitao licks his lips absently, and Sehun bares his neck in invitation. "Come on, hyung. Watch your baby work," he teases. But the playfulness melts as Zitao peels off his shirt, trailing sloppy kisses down his chest. Sehun pants, as Zitao fumbles with a plastic bottle. And Joonmyun's throat goes dry.

Zitao is careful, tender. He kisses Sehun slowly as he coaxes him open, fingers working inside one by one. Affection stirs in Jooonmyun's chest as Zitao noses over Sehun's cheekbone, tells him how he's dying to be inside. Sehun leans towards the touches, eyes raw and unfocused as Zitao presses kisses, whispers softly, all lazy strokes and soothing ministrations. The intimacy is only underscored as Sehun intercepts Joonmyun's gaze, moaning as their eyes lock and Zitao's fingers curl inside him just right. Sehun bites down on his lower lip, face pinching with pleasure, eyes still on his, as he begins to grind back hard.

"Are you ready?" Zitao murmurs, and Sehun gasps out a yes as he thrusts his fingers inside once more. He's staring straight at Joonmyun as he answers, and the elder shivers involuntarily. "Then ride me," Zitao urges against his shoulder blade, snapping latex into place.

Zitao props himself up against the headboard, and Sehun turns in his lap—facing in Joonmyun's direction—as he grips Zitao, braces himself on his knees over Zitao's cock, legs spread obscenely wide.

"Watch," he chokes out. "This show is just for you."

Sehun lets out this jagged moan as soon as he drops, and Zitao soothes over prominent hipbones, kisses warm and succulent on the sharp jut of his shoulder. And dazed, light-headed, thrumming with need, with confused arousal, Joonmyun does watch. Taking note.

Of the way that Zitao molds his large fingers across pale, taut skin. The way that Sehun's face pinches as he braces himself on Zitao's knees. The way that Zitao rolls his hips up in a slow sinuous grind, length disappearing inside in tight rolls forward. The way they both tremble, skin glistening, as their muscles undulate in the warm lighting. And the way that Zitao moans. Harder, less breathy, lips opening and closing carelessly, jaw working to make room for every delicious sound.

Sehun starts to bounce in earnest, voice cracking and cock bouncing with every drop, before collapsing back against Zitao's chest from the exertion, and Zitao folds his arms under Sehun's sweaty thighs, spread him open, holding him steady. Sehun's knees knock together as he whimpers Zitao's name over and over again, dark flush spreading from his face to his chest, suffusing his entire body. Zitao bites down, and Joonmyun catches his eyes. And he can't just watch. He tugs his pants down, crawls forward, collapsing at Zitao's side as he jerks himself off.

Zitao groans loudly.

"You're doing so good. So, so good, baby," he rasps out. "Daddy's so fucking proud of you."

Tao whimpers at the praise.

Sehun whimpers in annoyance, tries to gain leverage to roll down even harder, but the shift in angle has him crying out, crashing back. " _There_. Fuck right there."

Sehun just takes, as Zitao shifts to spread his legs even further, force them up and open as he fucks upward even harder. Joonmyun takes hold of one, folds it toward Sehun's chest and Sehun whimpers, whines that he's so close. He takes a hold of his cock, stroking disconcertingly fast.

Zitao tangles his fingers in Joonmyun's hair to tug him forward, smash their mouths together as Sehun moans. It's too fucking messy and desperate. He can feel the sweaty tremble of Sehun's thigh against his finger tips.

"Oh God, please, hyung," Sehun moans, reaching out for Joonmyun, chin crashing against his kneecap. "Please please please. Touch me _please_."

But Tao is panting into Joonmyun's mouth, angling his head back, sucking sloppily on Joonmyun's tongue as he begs to touch him. Make his Daddy come.

Joonmyun pinches his nipple, bites down on his lip. Zitao tenses, bucks up once, twice, before crying out, moan loud and filthy against Joonmyun's mouth. He rides it out with quick snaps that have Sehun slumping back, tugging harshly on Zitao's damp black strands in an attempt to anchor himself.

And he's still so fucking desperate for it. A wrecked, desperate, needy sort of beauty, dark eyes glazed, as he hums, sobs, begs. He twists as Zitao goes soft inside of him, tangling his fingers into Joonmyun's hair, begging softly.

But Zitao twists almost immediately after, too, to reach down and take Joonmyun in his mouth. "Come down my throat, Daddy," he urges softly. "Want to taste you. Want to feel it." Joonmyun groans, arching toward the slick heat. Joonmyun comes down the slick, warm vacuum of Zitao's perfect mouth, into the plush press of his red lips.

He sinks back into the mattress, and Sehun maneuvers to press against his side, sandwich him between Zitao and himself. He's still painfully hard, rutting softly against his thigh, and Joonmyun smiles against his throat. He grabs a hold of him, teasing over the head, tapping over the tip with his thumb on every upstroke. Sehun's fingers bite into Joonmyun's bicep as he rocks toward every caress. Smirking, Joonmyun flicks his wrist, rolls Sehun's balls between his fingers, presses hard on the crown. Sehun whimpers his name as he comes in a stuttering spurts across his own stomach, hips jerking forward.

He's soft and pliant after orgasm, pressing imploring fingers into Joonmyun's arms, begging for more attention, whining unceremoniously. Sehun tries to kiss him again, and Joonmyun relents. It's shy, soft. Sehun gasps into his mouth and cups his jaw, flutters his fingers against Joonmyun's cheekbone. He tastes like Zitao as he works his tongue inside, breathes into Joonmyun's mouth.

Joonmyun breaks it off, and Zitao pouts softly, holding out his arms to cuddle closer. Joonmyun laughs into his hair, walks his fingers along Zitao's spine. "You're very, very good, baby," he praises in a whisper. Zitao pinks.

Joonmyun twists an arm back, at an awkward angle to grab a fistful of blond hair. "You were good, too." He feels a shaky exhale against the back of his neck.

(Joonmyun isn't sure if it matters, if it's what he wants, if he wants to keep)


End file.
